


A Matter of Timing

by ScribbleWillow (Soul_in_the_Starlight)



Series: Frustration [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul_in_the_Starlight/pseuds/ScribbleWillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor should know better than to spy on people...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Timing

It wasn't like Amy to be late up in the morning.  
  
They are on a planet, and Amy _loves_ planets.  
  
The Doctor fudges about in the control room for another five minutes before boredom overcomes him. He sets off for Amy's room at a determined pace. Just because they are living in a time machine, it's no excuse for _tardiness_.  
  
He arrives at her bedroom door, and is about to knock, but hears a low moaning sound coming from inside the room. He puts his ear to the door, listening intently. The moaning sound continues, punctuated by Amy saying his name.  
  
Clearly she is in distress, and calling for his help! The TARDIS _really_ should have alerted him to her predicament.  
  
He tries the door handle, but it's locked. Obviously. She wasn't going to leave her door open on board a space ship with an alien wandering about the place. A commendable attitude, and one he similarly adopts, but that isn't a help when she's in need of him.  
  
He slides his sonic screwdriver from his jacket pocket, and aims it at the lock. But then he hesitates, looking at his wristwatch.  
  
He's _early_.  
  
He's about two hours _early_. He lets his head fall against her door with a soft thud. She isn't late at all, he's _early_. So she probably isn't in distress, she's probably dreaming. About him. Which is perfectly _natural_ , they've spent a lot of time together. And there's that whole childhood fixation thing going on, as well as all the narrow escapes from certain death.  
  
But still. He should just look in on her, it would be the caring thing to do. If she was in distress and he'd left her, he'd never forgive himself. He aims the screwdriver again, but lowers it with a sigh.  
  
If she was in distress, the TARDIS _would_ have alerted him. And if he hadn't gone looking for her, he _wouldn't_ have heard her, and would be none the wiser.  
  
He spins away from the door, about to pocket the screwdriver, but hears a muffled cry from behind the bedroom door.  
  
He turns back again, counting to five, and points the sonic device at the lock again. She's probably having a nightmare about one of the aliens from whom they'd barely escaped with their lives. It would be cruel to let her suffer that alone.  
  
He depresses the button, and the screwdriver whines into life, releasing the lock.  
  
The Doctor carefully opens the door, if she's asleep and he bursts in on her, it won't do either of their nerves much good.  
  
He opens the door, just wide enough to poke his head around, and withdraws it hurriedly, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.  
  
She's not having a nightmare.  
  
Nor is she in distress.  
  
She's... Oh _Gallifrey_ , she's pleasuring herself!  
  
He closes his eyes, wondering what to do. Leaving and never, _ever_ letting on that he's _seen_ her is probably the best thing. But he was never one to take the easy way out.  
  
The soft moans and mentions of his name are louder now, with the door open. The poor girl is obviously frustrated; he's whisked her away from her life, and it was naive to think that a girl so pretty wouldn't have some young man at her behest. Maybe even that nurse fellow, Rory. Or Jeff. Not that it matters who, not really. She's young, in her prime, and in need of gratification.  
  
In spite of himself, the Doctor cautiously peers around the door again. He swallows. Hard.  
  
Amy is sprawled on her back on the enormous bed, the covers kicked off in a dishevelled heap at the foot of it. She's wearing that white cotton nightdress she'd come aboard in, the fabric pushed up around her waist as her slender hands dip down in between her spread thighs, the middle finger of her right hand rubbing determinedly where it would best serve her, left hand working a long cylindrical object in and out of herself; a dildo.  
  
The Doctor doesn't recall any such sexual aids being present on the ship, but then the TARDIS wasn't likely to make him aware of them; after all, it wasn't him who'd be needing them. He briefly finds his mind querying which other females have given themselves the same treatment as Amy. That thought is not good for his bodily state.  
  
Her head rolls from side to side on the pillow, eyes screwed up in concentration, lips open as panting breaths escape from between them.  
  
She slowly slides the dildo almost completely out, her right hand slowing as she licks her lips. She waits a moment, hips undulating on the bed, the moaning sound escaping her again.  
  
The Doctor watches, _indecently_ fascinated at the sight of his companion teasing herself, trying to ignore the effect it's having on his loins.  
  
Amy's right hand circles her clit, as the left thrusts the dildo hard up inside herself, arching her back and crying out as she now pumps it hard in that all too familiar rhythm.  
  
"Doctor! Yes, _harder_!"  
  
He should leave.  
  
He should turn around, close the door, relock it, and go and hang his head in shame.  
  
But the sight and sound of her, as she works herself towards her climax, is just too compelling, appealing to the anthropologist as well as the man.  
  
Amy's moans of pleasure are growing louder and more urgent as her hands work furiously. She raises her hips from the bed, digging her heels into to the mattress as she meets each deep thrust of her own hand.  
  
The Doctor has to steady himself against the door frame, his knees are losing substance in the face of such lurid abandonment.  
  
He should leave before she finishes; but the scientist demands to know the sounds she makes, the words she utters, the colour of her skin as she comes.  
  
And suddenly, that knowledge is his, as Amy finally reaches the point of no return. A low mewling sound starts somewhere deep inside her throat, rising in pitch and volume until it breaks, like an angry tide across her body;  she shrieks his name, entwining it with affirmatives and deities as she convulses on the bed, and he finds himself wishing he was clinging to her, as her orgasm claims her and she's lost to the outside world.  
  
He closes the door now, hoping against hope that she was preoccupied enough that she didn't hear his blurted "blimey!" as she came; hoping the circle of light from her bedside lamp left the doorway sufficiently dark, as he locks it and steals away to his room.  
  
He is two _hours_ early, that should be enough time. Enough time to find his own release from the aching hardness in his trousers; enough time to practice not feeling _painfully_ awkward, when he meets her again in due course.


End file.
